


My love was punished long ago

by Heelshire_Mansion



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: F/M, Soft Brahms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22215580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heelshire_Mansion/pseuds/Heelshire_Mansion
Summary: Bunch of drabbles I write to cope with how bad the trailer for the new movie looks.
Relationships: Greta Evans/Brahms Heelshire
Comments: 5
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This drabble kicked down my door at night and made me write it.  
> \-- Greta comes to Jude's aid at the end of the second movie (or at least a version of it I made up) --  
> Title is from Snuff by Slipknot.

Greta shivered. It was January but the cold weather wasn’t what caused it.

Heelshire mansion was a sight to behold even three years later. Despite the scaffolding and torn plastic sheets beating against the wall with each gust of wind, the house was imposing. She had never thought she’d be back here, facing down fear and memory both for a stranger. ‘ _ Not a stranger,’  _ her mind corrected, _ ‘a child that is probably at risk.’ _

Greta had stayed in Britain after everything had gone down back in 2011, she and Malcolm tied together by shared trauma and the ghost of a flirtation that didn’t take long to dry up. Lately, she had been thinking of moving back home, seeing Sandy and her son again, maybe getting some sunlight. She was about to put it all behind her, when the call came.

Jude. That was his name. The child that called her. “Brahms is still here,” he had said, “it’s never too late.” To her utter shame, terror wasn’t the only emotion she had felt. No, Greta felt relief; relief that she wasn’t a murderer, despite living as one for so long. 

Her fists curled, nails digging in her palms. There was no delaying it.

She made for the house. The front door was wide open, the floors were dusty, much of the furniture placed under protective covers or entirely removed. There was sadness in it. Had Brahms lived here alone after she left him bleeding on the floor that night? She didn’t regret it, she had only wanted to get Malcolm out then, to get herself away from it all. But then he’d kissed her, and it had all felt a bit too familiar, reminding Greta of a different set of large hands, pinning her down, making her bleed. She had acted on instinct. 

A loud banging came from downstairs.

The cellar.

Greta rushed to the stairs, overly aware of the weapon in her pocket. He wouldn’t hurt a child, would he? She didn’t know. She had no clue if she could survive him a second time, and yet here she was, plunging headfirst into whatever awaited in that basement. It wasn’t bravery, she thought as she got to the bottom of the stairs, it was plain stupidity.

She didn’t call out for Jude. Keeping her eyes wide open in the near dark of those underground hallways, Greta pressed on. She could see a warm flickering light at the end, reflecting on the old mouldy stone. Someone was crying softly.

The scene that greeted her beyond that threshold, once she reached it, made absolutely no sense. 

A young boy, no older than twelve, was holding a shotgun, standing guard over an unconscious man on the ground. Too big for him, it would probably hurt him if he fired while holding it like that. He was also the one crying. 

Greta’s hand shook as she found the pistol in her pocket. 

The kid was pointing the gun at Brahms.

“Jude?” She said it softly, hoping that she wouldn’t spook either of them. Two sets of eyes fell on her but only one remained. Brahms’ gaze demanded her attention, but Greta only cared for the child. “It’s Greta. You called me this morning, remember?”

His lip trembled and he nodded. 

“I can take care of this man for you.” Brahms shifted from his place on the floor, pulling himself up to a sitting position. She pointed her gun at him hoping that would convince Jude. “Where are your parents?”

A sob left the poor kid, “D- Dad is here. Mom… I don’t know. Home, I think.”

“Put that down now. It’s okay,” she soothed, her eyes drifting to the unmasked Brahms just in case. She could make out his burn scars, even with his back to the intense source of light that was the open furnace. “Go to your mother and call the police. Don’t come back here under any circumstances.” She glanced back at Jude, “Alright?”

“Y- Yes.” The shotgun was abandoned almost too fast. Jude was dressed in a small suit, eerily similar to the doll’s, she now noticed. What in all hells had happened here? He hesitated beside her, on his way out, tugging on her coat. “Thank you and... please save dad.”

A faint smile, “I’ll do my best. Just do as I said, ok?” He nodded again and started running down the corridor. Greta breathed a sigh of relief.

“Greta…”

His voice was rough,  _ he _ looked rough. 

“What did you do to him?” She didn’t know who she was referring to. Jude’s dad who still lay unconscious a few feet away, or the kid. It didn’t matter.

“It wasn’t me,” he croaked and, gods, she could see it in his eyes; he believed it. 

She wanted to laugh, “Good try, but I’m the one holding the gun, Brahms.”

His face grew darker. “Did you come to finish me off?” His scarred face twisted with emotion. It should have been unsightly, but it wasn’t. “I thought you were different.”

If she couldn’t forget what he sounded like before, after this - if she survived - it would be nearly impossible. Brahms had never spoken more than a single sentence that night three years ago, and that was when he was begging her to stay, deranged. 

“Different?” A wave of anger rose in her chest, “You  _ murdered _ Cole, almost did the same to Malcolm, you-” She stopped, not knowing how to frame what had happened between them.

“I did it for you!” He burst out, sitting upright suddenly, “Cole was going to take you away. You didn’t want to go and I- I couldn’t be alone.” She knew that, she knew he wanted to keep her.

“You wanted a pet, not a human being, Brahms.”

“I wanted you.” Her heart stopped. The heat in his eyes made her want to look away.

She should be disgusted.

“You would have kept me in a cage. No,” she said and recentered her aim, “don’t bother denying it.”

“I wasn’t myself,” he took a shuddering breath, eyes lost in memory, “But when you were there, I could see more clearly. The voice was quiet.”

He was mad, and yet she felt for him.

“And now?” She asked before she could stop herself. Damn her curiosity.

Brahms looked haunted still. “Now, it’s gone.” 

“How-”

She was cut off by his widening eyes as he yelled, “Behind you!”

The warning didn’t come fast enough. Greta felt a searing pain in her skull; it made the world spin and darken. Up became down, she could feel the cold stone floor against her cheek and it took everything she had to focus on the man sitting on top of her, about to strike again. 

The blow never came.

Her senses came and went, chaining her to the ground, useless. She was aware of someone fighting, the crunch of bone unmistakable even in her state. Her gun lay forgotten a few feet away, but nobody had made a move towards it - or the shotgun - yet. She went for it.

The other man - she knew that now - must have seen her because a black boot stepped on her hand as soon as she reached it. Greta cried out.

He had the gun now.

Brahms fought him for it. She crawled, using the distraction now that her vision was clearer to get to Jude’s still unconscious father.

Two shots rang, one after the other.

It happened in slow motion for her. The other man got free of Brahms by shoving him against a pillar with a borderline supernatural strength, and raised the gun towards her, somehow aware of what she was doing. Brahms gasped for a second, winded but far from done. He charged with a growl, taking hold of the man’s wrist.

_ Bang _

Brahms fell. Greta wanted to scream. Instead, she aimed and pulled the trigger of the shotgun.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a second, he stood - then he crumpled to the ground, a puppet without strings.

There was a pool of blood and she couldn’t tell, couldn’t see, whose it was. Greta was on her knees next to Brahms before their attacker had drawn his last breath. 

“Brahms,” her voice shook, her hands too as she reached for him, “Look at me.” 

He was drifting already, but her words seemed to do the trick. He did as she asked, his bright, clear eyes hazy. “Greta,” he rasped.

“Help is coming. Y- You’re going to be fine.” Tears filled her vision. When had she started crying?

A bloody hand covered her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears. He didn’t speak, he just smiled.

“You idiot,” she whispered, avoiding looking at the wound in his stomach, “stay with me. You should have let him-”

“I’ve always wondered what it would be,” he cut her off, “the last thing I’d see before I died.” His breathing failed him but he went on, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Greta choked on a sob. She didn’t know what he was, or if he was worth it. None of it mattered. Brahms needed to live; she felt she might shatter as soon as his eyes glazed over and his body grew cold. “No, you’re not going to die,” she said it with a conviction she didn’t know she could muster.

She was all emotion now. The world had narrowed down to the two of them, to Brahms’ rugged breathing and her desperate heart trying to beat fast enough for the both of them. She had thought of him for so long, practiced in her head what she would do if she ever saw him again, if he was still alive. It wasn’t this.

She kissed him.

It was gentle, soft; it didn’t last long. They looked at each other, gazes locked now as they parted. Brahms was paler, but the happiness in his eyes was unmistakable.

Police and ambulance sirens broke the spell.

Later, when the police was done taking her statement and the doctors had reassured her that he would survive, Greta found herself sitting outside Brahms’ room, her fingers seeking out her lips. It was insanity, part of her insisted, a momentary lapse of judgement. Surely, if she got up and left right now, it would all go back to normal.

Greta stood and pulled the door to Brahms’ hospital room open. She went inside. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greta makes up an excuse and infiltrates Heelshire Mansion two years after the events of the first movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't even edit this. Don't kill me please xD

His room was half destroyed. Someone had tried to burn it down - she guessed by the charred wood in front of her, but had only been half successful. A violin case lay on the floor, empty and burned almost entirely, the instrument it had once contained inside nowhere to be seen. The sad but homey feeling of the room was gone too, now replaced by a heaviness that pressed down on her chest, its phantom weight crushing her lungs.

Layers of dust coated everything. Greta ran her fingers over the metallic railing on the side of his bed, leaving clean streaks as she went. Her eyes flickered to the ratty mattress and she blinked, the memory of the coral dress wearing doll returning unbidden. 

She shouldn't be here. Brahms was dead, he had to be. Greta had stabbed him twice, as deeply as she could; it had been either her or him and he had left her no choice.

She gripped the railing.

He couldn't be here, couldn't be alive and causing trouble for this poor family. And yet, Greta had come as soon as she heard, like a moth to the flame - and under the pretence of being a new prospective buyer, to see for herself. The man who had let her in looked eerily familiar, but she had been too focused on keeping her hands from trembling and giving herself away to attempt to remember him.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

_ 'Don't turn around,' _ some primal instinct screamed at her.

She did.

He was a shadow in the doorway. There were no features she could make out as she stood there in the light, but Greta knew those wide shoulders and the slouch in them. He made himself small and yet he still towered over everything, a man in the role of a child. It was all burned into her brain; Brahms Heelshire had taken out a part of her that night, carved it as he pleased, then put it back crooked, ill-fitted for its place.

"Brahms," she tried to say but her voice was barely above a whisper. 

If he heard her, he didn't say a word. They both stood there, the few feet between them too short a distance to fit all the pain and horror they had inflicted on each other. She didn't want to empathise with a madman, yet she did it anyway, again and again, scratching at the wound that was him until it bled bright red and festered.

Brahms, released from whatever temporary spell had held them both, moved. His feet made little noise on the ancient floorboards as he stepped forward slowly. 

For a moment she thought about running, of grabbing a tool from his work table to defend herself because this man could snap her in two if he decided to, and  _ what had she been thinking _ .  panic. 

It all ceased to matter as soon as the sunlight hit his face. Greta hadn’t seen the burns before, hell she hadn’t even connected the dots about why he was wearing a mask in the first place until now. She had wondered about it, yes, but ultimately she had ended up chalking it up to a mix of insanity and criminally bad parenting. Now, she found herself staring, lips parting as she committed his features to memory. The flesh on the right side of his face looked as if it had melted, then solidified again, misshapen and painful. It stretched, red and leathery, from his nose and over his cheekbone all the way up to his temple, avoiding his jaw and eye for the most part. Long lashes and thick eyebrows cast shadows over laurel green eyes, his aquiline nose a sharp contrast to the button nose of the mask. The unkempt beard and wild dark curls were familiar at least, yet now - without the presence of a mask to hide the rest of him, those too seemed to shift, changing to fit this man she now struggled to reconcile with the faceless murderer who had upended her entire life. If she had to describe him now, she’d have no words, or rather she’d have too many.

‘Striking,’ her mind provided, and Greta blinked, the thought sobering her up. She looked away, suddenly self-conscious for staring so openly. 

He was frowning, she could tell, studying her as much as she did him. Had she changed since then?  _ Yes _ , Greta thought with solemn certainty,  _ she had changed a lot _ . 

Brahms took another step. 

“Stop!” She didn’t realise she had spoken until a minute passed and Brahms hadn’t moved again, staying put a few feet away from her. His eyes searched hers; he was so damn easy to read, his expression completely unguarded without a mask to cover it up. 

“Why are you here?” he said through gritted teeth. He didn’t attempt to change his voice.

“I…,” Greta swallowed her reply, forcing herself to hold her ground, “What happened to you?”

His lips thinned, bitterly, “You’re cruel.” He took another step, staring her down, “It’s been two years since you left me for dead. Wasn’t that enough for you?”

She swallowed down the tightness in her throat. “That’s not what-” He kept advancing on her, sending her heart into a frenzy. “I didn’t tell anyone.” When he didn’t seem like he would reply, she continued, “I took Malcolm to the hospital that night. He couldn’t remember most of what happened, but he promised to keep it between us; and he did.”

“Go back to him,” his eyes were cold, “you don’t belong here.”

“No,” her voice was firm, “I’m not leaving yet.”

He was mere inches away now, so close that she could feel his breath on her hair. It dragged up memories of that night, twisting her stomach with fear, yet she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. “Greta,” his voice was nearly a whisper, sending a shiver down her spine, “Do you have a death wish?”

Brahms brought a hand up, his thumb tracing a shape against her throat, lightly. It was twisted, the way her fear turned into something else at that moment. Greta pushed down those thoughts and settled a hand on top of his. 

His eyes looked dark now with what she assumed must be hatred. “You won’t hurt me,” she sounded more confident than she was, “and you won’t hurt the kid.”

“The kid?”

“Jude.”

His hand fell away. “That’s why you’re here,” he huffed and turned away, “I should have guessed.”

“I heard someone new had moved in. I heard the house was haunted still.” She struggled to find the right words, “I had to see for myself.”

“Well, now you know. Leave while I’m still being generous.” His back was tense, but that was all Greta could make out. 

She took a risk, “I had to see you.”

Brahms turned around so fast, she didn’t have time to react. He backed her against the sheet music covered column, his thumbs digging into her shoulders. “What is this, Greta? What do you want from me?” His eyes were wild, “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? I spent weeks delirious, calling out for my parents, for you. If my uncle hadn’t found me I would be dead.” His voice broke, “I still loved you, even after what you did, I still wanted you to come back. I was so pathetic.” The anger this time was entirely directed at himself.

The fear left her as quickly as it came. “No. No, you’re not.” Greta hadn’t been more convinced of anything before, “What you did for me… It wasn’t right, but it saved my life.” He opened his mouth but she cut him off, “That night, when you tried to trap me in the house, all I could see was another Cole.” The knot in her throat threatened to choke her, “You were sick, your parents damaged you so badly that I couldn’t begin to fathom caring for you, of being used and hurt again. In that moment, I believed it all; the pub talk, your parents’ words. Not anymore.”

Brahms stared for what felt like an eternity, searching her face for the lie. Finally, he shook his head, “No.”

He started pulling away, but Greta held onto his wrists. “Fine! I accept that. I won’t apologise to you, Brahms, but I do care. You can’t live like this.” She was yelling, she realised with a start. 

He matched her tone, “And how am I supposed to live? I am a monster, Greta. It would be better if I never left this place again, better if I didn’t exist at all.”

“You don’t know what a real monster is.” She met his gaze, hers stony, determined. “I wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for you.”

He shut his eyes, fists turning white. “Look at me,” he said so quietly she wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t standing so close, “This isn’t the face of a good man, Greta.”

The burns looked worse up close, his beard and hair barely taken care of. She made up her mind. “I know I disgust you,” he continued as Greta released his hands, “I treated you so badly and I’m sor-”

She kissed him. 

He froze, not responding to her at all. A myriad of emotions passed over his face as he stepped back, his expression so open and endearing it made her pulse flutter. She chastised herself for being so impulsive. 

“I’m not leaving unless you really want me to,” she said instead. Her heart was racing, anxious and hopeful. Her own feelings were a tangled mess. When had seeking closure become about him? She wanted him to kiss her back, she realised, but the horror of that realisation never came. These past few years should have been enough to help her move on, to heal from those few weeks she had spent in Heelshire Mansion; and they were. Greta had stopped having nightmares about the bone white mask, about being unable to breathe, about Cole coming back drenched in blood to drag her away. Soon, she was chasing after any and all information she could find on the Heelshires and their late son, the feel of his body against hers - a memory she had thought was too drowned in fear and adrenaline to be salvageable - haunting her dreams in a way she had at first dismissed, then later began to secretly enjoy. Gods, if Malcolm knew why she had left him, how she couldn’t stop dreaming of hands rougher than his, of curly hair and green eyes, he’d be disgusted.

And yet, Greta couldn’t bring herself to feel shame now. Not when she finally knew how his lips felt on hers. Something inside her was satisfied like this, being near him, the man who had gone so far for her. It was a mistake, too big of a risk, but she felt safe nonetheless. 

“Greta,” his hands cupped her face, “are you sure?”

“Yes,” she replied, breathless.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against hers. Her eyelids fluttered shut and he released her, letting his hands wander down her back, to her waist. So proper, she thought, nothing like the passion he had displayed last time. Greta knew this couldn’t stand. She wove her fingers in his hair, pulling him tightly against her. He let her control the kiss, acknowledging her experience with that, and she in turn took things slow, at a near torturous pace. 

He gasped into her mouth, a moan escaping him, as she pulled lightly on his curls. The sound sent a wave of heat straight down, pooling low in her stomach. This was dangerous, how easily made her feel things, how strongly. Greta pulled away and took him in. Brahms Heelshire was smiling. She mirrored him, taken by how different it made him look.

He had freed her; now it was her turn.


End file.
